


dry the stain like me

by Pinkmanite



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Idfic, Kneeling, M/M, reaction fic, self deprecation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 00:37:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14726651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkmanite/pseuds/Pinkmanite
Summary: Andre wants to fight more, wants to take it out on Nicke, wants to expel all the bad thoughts and anger and heat in any way he can.But Nicke doesn’t deserve that, he’s not the one that fucked up here. So Andre breathes out, not quite defeated, but still acquiescing.“Fine, then."





	dry the stain like me

There’s a mean voice, one that’s usually a quiet whisper in the back of Andre’s head. It really is usually quiet, until it finds the opportunity to sneak past the rest of Andre’s thoughts, past his better judgement, and makes itself known.

_You’re a fuck up. You’re a failure. You’re a fluke._

It gradually shifts from a whisper to full blown sonata, stuck on repeat in his head like the button’s been jammed and everyone’s staring at him to press it, but it just won’t go. It’s a whirling dissonance, ringing in his ears.

_How can you do this, when you owe this team, this sport, so fucking much?_

“Hey, hey,” and that’s Tommy, of course it’s Tommy, “it’s just a bad game, okay? Happens.”

Andre makes a face, lips in a thin line. He doesn’t mean to take it out on Tom, doesn’t mean to sulk and be a brat about it, but he can’t help it, he can’t just paint on a smile and save face.

Tom’s got a hand on his shoulder, maybe because he genuinely thinks it’ll help, but Andre just shrugs it off, shoulders past him. Maybe a little harsh.

He doesn’t turn back, but out the corner of his eye, he sees Tom cross his arms, maybe a little irritated.

Whatever, it’s not like he asked him to do anything for him. Fuck if he thinks Andre owes him a cooldown or whatever.

It’s a white heat, simmering and shock cold. It’s a numbness, tingling in needles across his skin. Andre’s on autopilot, gets dressed quickly, doesn’t look anyone in the eye, tunes out the noise of the locker room until it blends together in a cacophony, like he’s underwater.

The worst part is knowing that he’s going to go home, in his nice car that he doesn’t deserve, to his empty big house that he doesn’t deserve, to a facade of life that he pretends he worked for, earned. But what does it matter if the labor returns no fruit? What’s the point of having without achieving?

Rationally, Andre knows that he’s being harsh on himself, he does, but the rational voice is quieted, overtaken by the one that’s come out from the back of his head.

He straightens out his tie, slings his bag over his shoulder, and makes for the parking lot.

Before he can kick open the door, there’s a hand on his shoulder again.

He turns. “Look, Tommy, I’m not--”

But it’s not Tom, it’s Nicke, giving him a look he hasn’t seen in years, hasn’t seen since he’d first been called up and taking over Nicke’s guest room. It’s stoney, firm, and no nonsense.

“You’re coming over,” Nicke says, doesn’t ask.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Andre huffs, tries to shrug Nicke off, too. But Nicke doesn’t let go, keeps his hold.

“Don’t be a brat right now,” Nicke says, hushed. “Don’t fight it. You need it. You know you do.”

And Andre does want to fight more, wants to take it out on Nicke, wants to expel all the bad thoughts and anger and heat in any way he can. But Nicke doesn’t deserve that, he’s not the one that fucked up. So Andre breathes out, not quite defeated, but acquiescing.

“Fine, then.” Andre says, airy.

Nicke narrows his eyes at him, at his attitude, but he accepts it as is. He grabs his own bag, slides his hand up until it’s on the back of Andre’s neck, a steady presence.

Andre doesn’t say anything but he leans into it a little, already starting to give in. Nicke doesn’t comment on it either, keeps it there until they get to his car and he can shove Andre into the passenger side.

He keeps the radio on, but it’s low, the whoosh of air on the freeway is a little louder, drowning it out. Andre rests his head on the window, revels in how it cools his skin, shocks him back into focus. It’s somehow both grounding, but piercing; steady but throwing him back into his thoughts. Back to that voice--

“Stop that.” And Nicke’s reaching over, has got one hand on his knee, now. It’s heavy, firm. Warm. Andre shifts until he can lean his elbow on the door, propping up his head in his hand, instead. He closes his eyes and focuses on the weight on his knee.

It’s been a while but it’s an unfortunately familiar drive to Nicke’s. It reminds Andre why they don’t do this anymore, why this is an exception.

Why _he’s_ an exception.

It gets him heated again, gets his angry. He starts to shake his leg, bouncing his knee the way that annoys Nicke, makes him get short. But Nicke must’ve prepared for this, must’ve expected that Andre wouldn’t be easy to go down today, because he ignores it, presses a little harder.

Even so, Andre doesn’t really fight it, not once they’ve parked, not once he’s followed Nicke into his house and left his shoes in a spot where they used to belong.

His heart rate speeds up again, the ringing gets louder in his ears.

“Come on,” Nicke snaps him out of it. “Go change.”

“I don’t have clothes here,” Andre says, petulant. Accusing.

But Nicke shakes his head. “You know where my clothes are. Something comfortable, please.”

So Andre goes, follows a familiar hallways to a familiar bedroom. Goes through Nicke’s drawers like it’s second nature, like no time has passed and nothing has changed. This is fucked up, really, making Andre do this, making Andre _pretend._

“Andre?”

Ah, so he must’ve been taking too long. Nicke’s leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed. He’s looking at him, concern clear and unmasked, where Andre’s on the floor, shuffling through the drawers on the dresser.

“Food’s ready,” Nicke says, simple. “I’m going to change, too. Wait at the table for me?”

So Andre grabs the first pair of sweats he sees, the tee shirt on top, and nods. He shoulders past Nicke a little awkwardly, heads to the bathroom to get dressed.

He changes quickly, folds up his suit nicely and leaves it on the counter. He makes it to the table before Nicke does, settles at the place setting in what used to be his spot. It’s the same table but Nicke’s gotten new chairs since. It feels wrong.

When Nicke comes back, dressed in soft sweats and a shirt that’s pilling, he stops by the kitchen first, grabs a tray out of the oven, and brings it to the table, setting it on the potholders already set in the middle. It’s two premade meals, identical.

They eat in silence.

It doesn’t help at all, isn’t what Andre needs, isn’t what he came here for. He keeps glancing at Nicke, like if he thinks it hard enough, he’ll get the hint. But Nicke doesn’t meet his glances, focused on his food. It’s actually almost like he’s ignoring him completely, and Andre won’t have any of it.

“This is a waste of time,” he says, once he’s decidedly done with his food.

Nicke looks at him, takes his time as he finishes chewing and swallowing. Takes a long sip of his water, even, before he speaks. “Would you rather go home?”

Andre makes a face. “Why did you bring me here?”

Nicke does it again, the thing where he doesn’t answer right away and focuses on his dinner like it’s more important and Andre is just an afterthought. He finishes the last couple of bites while Andre glares at him, doesn’t acknowledge him.

“I’m here to give you whatever you need,” Nicke finally says, setting down his silverware and looking at Andre seriously, now. “If you’re done with the attitude.”

Andre crosses his arms, leans in on himself. “What, you’re trying to wait the attitude out of me? Tire me out until I stop being a brat?”

Nicke shrugs. “Well, yeah.”

Andre glares at him, bites his lip, frustrated.

But then he deflates, melts into the unfamiliar chair and sighs. “Yeah, alright. That’s… that’s fair.”

Nicke stands, collects their plates. “Good. I’m going to clean this up. Go wait for me in my bedroom.”

Andre listens, because Nicke’s right, he needs this right now, even if it’s kind of fucked up and procured out of a years-old mess. The rest of it is a problem for later. He’s already here and Nicke is clearly offering, no matter his motivation.

But still, Andre is unsure what exactly Nicke is offering here, feels a little awkward and out of place in a space that he used to be his most comfortable in. It’s another reminder, but Andre pushes it away in favor of anticipation, of knowing what could be coming. He finally decides to sit on the edge of the bed.

He’s antsy, leg shaking, the thoughts in his head going a mile a minute.

Nicke comes sometime later, it probably isn’t too long but it’s long enough for Andre, who’s been left alone with his thoughts. Who’s been left stewing in his head, in the thoughts and the nerves and the doubts.

But Nicke knows this, of course he does. “Ready?”

Andre nods.

“No, Andre. Words, please.” And Nicke’s sitting next to him, already getting in his space, thighs pressed together.

“Yes, Nicke, I’m ready.”

Nicke reaches back until he can grab a pillow from the headboard, checks it and makes sure it’s full enough, fluffy enough. He drops it on the ground in front of him, spreads his knees just a little.

Andre knows what he’s going for here, and he’s a little relieved, glad that that’s what they’re doing right now. He doesn’t know why he doubted Nicke, after all the time they had together, even after all the time they didn’t, of course he knows what Andre wants. What Andre needs.

So Andre slides off the bed, resettles on the pillow and scoots in until he can rest his head on Nicke’s thigh, large and warm and _familiar_. It’d be embarrassing, how comforting it is, except for the way it makes all those kinds of thoughts go away.

Nicke runs a hand, one of his stupid big hands, through Andre’s hair, massages his scalp, and whispers soft praises until Andre goes down.

 

~

 

Andre wakes up a little confused. He doesn’t know where he is, at first, only recognizes that he’s not in his bed at home. But then he feels the warm presence behind him, realize who it is. Which in turn, jogs his memory of where he is and why.

He turns in Nicke’s hold, makes sure not to jostle the arm thrown around him. Nicke’s still fast asleep, snoring just a little bit. He looks peaceful, steady.

Andre knows it’s weird, but he stares for as long as he can, as long as he can manage. He takes as much as he can from Nicke, even as he sleeps. Lets himself pretend until he’s calm again, until he feels steady and refreshed and ready to go.

But Andre knows this can’t last forever. He takes and takes, as much as he needs, but then he knows it’s time to go. He disentangles himself from Nicke’s hold, quiet and gentle. Nicke stirs but he doesn’t wake.

So Andre calls an uber, collects his things, and goes.

And when he gets back to his big empty house, he feels better, he feels grounded, but he still doesn’t feel quite right.

His phone buzzes, but he already knows who it is, what it’s about.

He ignores it.

  


.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hi this is a reaction or idfic or whatever in response to [this tweet](https://twitter.com/ikhurshudyan/status/998580075699326976) and I really don't know what the direction was here but I think I was maybe projecting a little a lot
> 
> title from gasoline by halsey


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